Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.

I've tried to believe, but I don't, I can't, and there's no use pretending.

Then why does Kenneth Anger wear a picture locket on a chain around his neck? On one side of the locket there is a picture of you; on the other there is an image of a frog with an inscription: "Bobby Beausoleil changed into a frog by Kenneth Anger." A voodoo amulet, so to say.

Great fury, like great whisky, requires long fermentation.

In California everyone goes to a therapist, is a therapist, or is a therapist going to a therapist.

When I am writing, I try to do it five hours a day but I spend about two of those just fooling around.

Hulga the whole while hollering like a half-slaughtered hog. (Attention, students of literature! Alliteration - have you noticed? - is my least vice.)